he passed a throng of females, that included Mrs Kingston, he was obliquely aware that fans were being feverishly employed and whispers becoming more urgently sibilant. Despite his reluctance to acknowledge them, his breeding impelled him to nod curtly, to nobody in particular, as he passed by.
About to quit the room, he noticed that George Kingston had propped himself against the wall and was moodily watching him. He and Kingston were known to be openly hostile; nevertheless, Jason diverted to where George was lounging—there was a matter of business that was on his mind. Following a perfunctory greeting, he launched straight away into, ‘I understand you are looking for a buyer for Westlea House.’
George found a firmer stance and drew himself up in his shoes to try and equal his rival’s height and breadth. Even with his chest fully expanded and his heels out of contact with the floor it was a futile task. ‘I’m looking for the right buyer for Westlea House.’
‘The right buyer or the right price?’ Jason enquired, amused.
‘What’s it to you?’ George snarled in response to that.
‘I buy freeholds at the right price, as you know.’
Indeed he did know that, George thought sourly. The man he hated, the same man his wife was eager to bed, had a portfolio of the most prestigious addresses in major cities throughout England. Rumour had it he also now owned prime land abroad. ‘A price named by you would never be the right price.’ It was a poor bluff. If this man offered him what he wanted, he would sell to him, they both knew that.
Jason acknowledged George’s petulance with a sardonic smile. It was no secret that the two men had once been friends, but now rarely spoke to one another. A roving glance told him that their conversation was indeed drawing some inquisitive looks.
Most people had assumed that, when Jason gained his title and wealth, George had resented being the underdog. But it was not inequality of status that had stirred such antipathy between them.
Despite their estrangement, Jason was a businessman, not too fastidious to ignore a prime opportunity if it presented itself. Once he had despised George, but the bitter incident that started it all had been mellowed by the passing of a decade. In an odd way, Jason felt pity that the man who once had been a good friend was saddled with a wife who acted like a harlot. It was not past enmity, but Iris Kingston and her pathetic ambition to be his mistress that would jeopardise any reconciliation between them. He returned to the business at hand and something niggling in his mind. ‘I recall that your sisters reside at Westlea House …’
‘Alternative arrangements for them have already been made,’ George said quickly.
Jason nodded and, just for a moment, felt tempted to comfortingly grip his erstwhile friend by the shoulder and tell him that Iris would be wasting her time wanting a simple flirtation with him. But he knew such a sensitive fellow would construe any reassurance on the subject as effrontery. He glanced away to notice a woman he did desire in the doorway of the room. Diana was bobbing her head this way and that as though searching for someone. As her blue eyes alighted on him she instinctively flicked her blonde curls and struck a dignified pose. Jason’s mouth tugged into a smile, for she had failed to convince him that she was careless of his presence.
‘I expect we might agree on a figure.’ He shoved away from the wall against which he had been propped.
George watched Jason saunter away. Inwardly he seethed at the cool confidence of the man, and the knowledge that, of course, he was right. He would sell to him.
‘Shall we find some more interesting diversion?’ Diana felt a thrill shiver through her as firm fingers brushed her arm. She swung about in a whisper of pink muslin to glance coyly up into a pair of eyes the colour of gunmetal. She pouted and exaggeratedly glanced about. ‘But, Jason, you might disappoint a certain person by leaving here so soon. Of course her husband would be delighted to see you go. He has a face like thunder.’ The peevish note to her voice put Jason’s teeth on edge. To subdue his sudden inclination to shrug and walk away, he allowed his gaze to linger on what about her was undeniably captivating.
Diana Tucker had a figure of exquisite proportions. She was of above average height for a woman, which suited him for he stood six feet tall. Her body had ample curves, yet retained a gracefulness that was often lacking in full-bodied females. She was blessed with a pretty face, too, and hair the colour of ripe wheat.
The stirring in his loins helped subdue his temper and he soothed her pique with a sensual stroke of a thumb. ‘Come, there are better games to be had between us than those on offer here….’
Diana adopted a look of indecision simply to prolong his wooing touch. Alert to his impatience, she soon coyly lowered her lashes and voiced a breathy agreement to leave.
A few moments later, as Mrs Tucker swayed from the room on her lover’s elegant arm, she made quite sure that Iris Kingston felt the full force of her bold-eyed triumph.
‘Thank you, Betty.’ Helen took the proffered letter and gave the serving maid a smile. Once the door had closed, she looked at the black script on the note’s address for an indication from whence it came. ‘It’s from George,’ Helen announced, then took another nibble at her breakfast toast before breaking the seal on the parchment. The toast, with so frugal an amount of butter spread on it, felt dry and scratchy in her mouth. Having moistened her throat with a sip of weak tea, she paraphrased, for Charlotte, the note’s contents.
‘It simply says that George would like me to visit today to discuss financial matters.’ Helen sent a smile to Charlotte, who was seated opposite her at their small breakfast table. ‘There! I knew he would come to his senses. He is ashamed at having squandered our funds on that selfish harridan he married.’
Charlotte picked up her tea and glumly watched the insipid liquid swirl in her cup. ‘I think he has the devil of a cheek making you go there. He has a carriage and ought to come here. Why should you walk a mile or more to see him?’
Helen looked thoughtful at that. It would indeed have been more convenient for her brother to come to Westlea House than for her to be summoned to travel halfway across Mayfair. She shrugged. ‘He probably thinks to make us work for our money. It doesn’t matter; it is a clement morning and I like a walk….’
Helen handed her umbrella to George’s servant, then carefully pushed back the drenched hood of her cloak. As she entered the small study in which her brother was lounging by the mantelpiece, she felt decidedly miffed. ‘Really, George! Would it have hurt you to come to Westlea House? I expected you would do so once it came on to rain.’ She shook out her damp skirts and heard one of her shoes squelch as she stepped towards the blazing fire to warm herself.
George frowned at the small puddle forming beneath the hem of his sister’s skirt. ‘Why in Heaven’s name did you not hail a hackney in such weather?’
Helen raked her slender fingers through her sleek black hair whilst glowering at her brother. ‘Would you have paid the fare when I arrived?’ She gave a grim smile as she saw George’s expression.
‘Oh, I see, you have no money … I did not think …’ George mumbled sheepishly.
‘You never do,’ his sister returned sourly.
George made a show of gallantly shifting away from the fire to usher Helen towards it.
‘You will soon be dry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘A little bit of rain never hurt a person.’
‘It
